


february's musician

by norio



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6477214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norio/pseuds/norio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akaashi is a model (more or less) and Bokuto is a big fan (more or less).</p>
            </blockquote>





	february's musician

**Author's Note:**

> Not an accurate depiction of music schools, orchestras, coffee shops, models, or bagels. I apologize and please enjoy.

Bokuto had been walking and talking, and found himself doing neither.

“—but fortunately, Yakkun brought a spare pair of socks, or else Lev never would have gotten out of the river, and what?” Kuroo stopped in his step, Bokuto grabbing the back of his jacket.

“It’s him! Look, it’s him!” Bokuto stared across the street. He had passed the small café hundreds of times. Café Athena was nestled between a mildly niche bakery and an extremely niche bookstore, cradled between faded brick walls. The blue on the signboard already flaked off into splotches of white, a well-loved café with passing patronage. But for the first time in his hundreds of passages, he saw the employee standing in the empty café, hands draped over the counter.

“It’s who?” Kuroo peered into the café. “Did you steal that guy’s notes? Do you owe him money? Does he want to fight you?”

“Don’t say all bad things! No, it’s him! Don’t you recognize him? Shit, it’s a celebrity. It’s a real celebrity, shit.” Bokuto ran his hands thorugh his hair. 

“A real life movie star? In our town?” Kuroo dubiously glanced down the street, where a cat was perched atop a garbage can, sitting over an empty pizza box. The cat yawned.

“He’s a model! Don’t you recognize him? Akaashi Keiji! It’s the Akaashi Keiji!” It was something to see someone in the glossy pictures, but seeing him in real life was almost overwhelming. He had never dreamt of meeting glory so early in his life, but this brush with greatness had him almost swooning on his feet. 

“Well, I don’t follow a lot of modeling stuff,” Kuroo said, scratching his head, “But why don’t we go say hi or something?”

“We can’t do that!” Bokuto clamped his hands over his mouth, glancing at the café to ensure Akaashi hadn’t heard the shout. “He probably gets that all the time! Kuroo, you gotta think with your head every once in a while.”

“Ok-ay,” Kuroo said. “Why don’t we go order something to drink?”

“You’re a genius, Kuroo!” Bokuto slammed his hand a few times against Kuroo’s back. “Don’t let anybody tell you anything else!” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Kuroo grinned and sauntered across the street, hands deep in his jacket. Bokuto followed in small hops. He wasn’t particularly hiding behind Kuroo’s tall frame, but he was hesitant to go first. It was really Akaashi Keiji. The Akaashi Keiji. The one and only Akaashi Keiji was going to be right in front of him in only a few seconds. He was ready. He had never been more ready in his life. 

He grabbed Kuroo by the jacket and dragged him to the blind spot in front of the bakery.

“Ow! What are you doing, idiot?” Kuroo shoved him aside, straightening out his clothes with an affronted frown. 

“What do I say to him? I have to make a good impression! He probably gets stuff like this all the time!” Bokuto ran his fingers through his hair, raising it even more wildly. “What’s a cool type of coffee?”

“Eh? I don’t know, panini?” 

“Really? Is that really cool?”

Kuroo looked at him. 

“Yeah,” he said, deciding something. “It’s the coolest type of coffee you could possibly order. But you gotta say it with confidence.” 

“Panini.”

“More confidence.”

“Pa-nee-nee!” 

“More.”

“Panininini!” Bokuto struck both fists in the air triumphantly. 

“Perfect. Just like that. Don’t do a single thing differently, buddy.” Kuroo pushed him through the café doors. 

An owl-shaped bell tinkled above them, and the employee turned around. Bokuto almost staggered back at the full force of the model. He had dark tousled hair and knowing eyes, which flickered almost imperceptibly across the two customers. His features seemed delicate and precise, different from the unyielding straight frame of his figure, clad in the black of the apron and the starched white collar of his shirt. He didn’t quite smile at them, but his expression gently relaxed in a centimeter of his strong eyebrows and millimeters around the corners of his strict mouth. 

“Pa-panini!” Bokuto shouted. 

They stood in silence for another moment.

“We have some other kinds of sandwiches,” the Akaashi Keiji, the one and only, observed slowly, pointing to the display case. 

“I’ll just have a latte,” Kuroo said, sticking out his hand. “Please and thank you.” 

“Eh? What? I mean, me too, I’ll have that too, and my friend’s going to pay for it,” Bokuto said. He shoved his elbow into Kuroo’s stomach, and didn’t bother to look back at the outraged sound. Instead, he leaned against the display, watching Akaashi ring up the register. Kuroo seemed resigned, fishing out his wallet and tossing over a few bills. Akaashi turned to start the drinks, and Bokuto stared at the sharp shoulder blades against the crisp shirt.

“It’s totally him,” Bokuto hissed, poking Kuroo where he had elbowed him.

“Well, yeah, he has a nametag and I can read,” Kuroo said in a low voice, blocking the pokes with his palm. “So what are you going to do now?”

“Just watch and learn from the best,” Bokuto said, smug and confident. He grabbed a napkin from the dispenser. He fiddled with the edges, watching Akaashi carefully place the cups on the counter. With perfect timing, he thrust the napkin under Akaashi’s face.

“Autograph! Please!” He could hear Kuroo snickering behind him, but he didn’t care. He wanted Akaashi’s autograph. He would hang it up on his wall or preserve it between the pages of a book. 

“Oho?” Kuroo seemed surprised that Akaashi accepted the napkin. With a slight shrug, Akaashi pulled a pen from his apron pocket. Bokuto would have known those long, elegant fingers from anywhere. He watched the pen rest against his thumb, the tip of his finger sliding against the ballpoint side. His entire body quickened at the sight, shaking slightly until Akaashi finished his signature.

“Th-hanks!” Bokuto grabbed the napkin with both hands. His entire face hurt from grinning. He was standing next to the Akaashi Keiji. He could see his slight curve of the neck and the patience in his eyes. It was everything he could have ever wanted. Even the napkin felt tingly under his hands. 

“So do you still model?” Kuroo asked, sipping from his coffee. It was apparently too hot, given his scrunched face and stuck out tongue. 

“I’m not a model,” Akaashi said. 

“What?”

“What?” 

“No, you are a model! I’d recognize those hands anywhere!” Bokuto clenched his fist. “He’s Akaashi Keiji! His hands are in last year’s Monthly Musicians February edition!” 

“What?”

“What?”

 

 

Bokuto arrived early in the coffee shop, cloaked in his sunglasses disguise. The shop looked different in the daytime, bathed in amber light from the open windows. The coffee smell was stronger and he could hear burbling from behind the wide counter. Only a few people lingered around after ordering their coffee. Someone sat with their back to the doorway, typing on their laptop on the single high table. Another person had balanced their mug and saucer on the flat armrest of the faded blue sofa. Bokuto took the corner seat, a good discreet view of the counter in sight. 

Akaashi had flipped open a menu and he played with his long fingers as he read. He ran his thumb across the curl of his fingers, cupping them close. He really did have beautiful fingers with perfect short nails and an elegant dip in his knuckles. The pictures in the magazine had captured their stillness, but Bokuto was transfixed on the real life motion. The fingers almost weaved together, each falling into the space of the other hand. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, voice clear, “Would you like to order something?”

“Yes!” Bokuto threw up his menu with too much force, and it clattered onto the floor. Akaashi bent down to retrieve it, placing it solidly on the table with his fingers outstretched across the small letters. The slight pressure he’d placed on his fingertips left them slightly flushed, a rosy bloom beneath the nails. Bokuto swallowed. 

“I hadn’t realized they printed my name in the magazine,” Akaashi said. “It was a coincidence. I was running another errand, and they requested I hold some items for them to adjust the camera placement.” 

“But it’s amazing!” Bokuto grabbed the magazine from his bag, where it had already been crumpled and dog-earred beyond repair. He slammed it down on the table, flipping to the bookmarked picture. A hand was holding a violin, each finger like a cascade across the front. Another hand held the bow, fingers both tense on the arches and looser towards the tips. Even from the pictures, he could tell there was stern strength in the fingers. The light cast tumbling shadows across the violin.

“Is it?” Akaashi didn’t quite smile, but his eyes were gentler when he flipped through the magazine.

“You must get people telling you that all the time, haha! Sorry, I know I’m a little star struck! Everybody must be asking you for your autograph!” Bokuto rubbed the back of his neck. A guy like Akaashi must have been flooded with ardor from admirers after the photoshoot. 

“Right,” Akaashi said, glancing around the empty café. “It happens far less than you think.”

“So do you play the violin? You look like you know what you’re doing, but I don’t have a clue!” Bokuto crossed his arms over his chest firmly. 

“I play the violin and piano, but it’s not my specialty. I’m training to be a conductor,” Akaashi said. He leaned against the marble table, apron pulled taut against his hips. Bokuto fiddled with the ends of his sunglasses, trying not to look.

“A conductor!” Bokuto stood up. “That’s awesome!” 

“I believe someone is trying to study over there, Bokuto-san.”

“That’s awesome,” he stage whispered, fists gripped tight. 

“And what instrument do you play?” 

“How did you know I play!” 

Akaashi glanced again at where the customer had buried themselves in their laptop and house of textbooks. Bokuto clamped his hands over his mouth, but the customer only emitted a death knell groan over his book. Akaashi nodded towards Bokuto.

“The only university around here specializes in music.”

“That’s so smart. I play percussion,” Bokuto said, imitating the stick motion. “I’m the best at it!” 

“You’d be a troublesome one to conduct,” Akaashi said. “But I’d be excited to try.” The doorway bell chirped, and he rose from his leaning position. His trousers pulled taut over his frame as he walked back to the counter, and Bokuto stared up at the ceiling, trying to conjure up pious and chaste thoughts. 

 

On Friday, after visiting five days in a row, Bokuto thought to ask the question.

“Am I bothering you?” Bokuto glanced around the empty shop. “I told Kuroo I was visiting you all the time, and he told me to ease up, but I can’t read the atmosphere at all!”

“That comes as a surprise, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, refilling the cardboard box with plastic forks. He had such long fingers. When he arched them the right way, he could trace along the slender bones and veins beneath them. 

“I just get really into it, you know! A real life celebrity! And your hands are so pretty! They’re amazingly pretty. They’re like…” Bokuto tried to think of something flabbergastingly poetic. “They’re like ships. At night. In the moonlight.” 

“Thank you, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi slid his hands into his apron. “Did you want to order something today, as well?”

“Oh, yeah. What do you recommend?”

“I’ll make an espresso.” Akaashi moved around the back. 

“Hey, they say sometimes a person’s coffee says a lot about them.” Bokuto propped his chin on his hand, leaning against the counter beside the row of chips. 

“Who says that?”

“They, they! Come on, Akaashi, don’t give me a hard time! Anyway, what do you think? You work here and you’ve seen all the people with all their coffees and you always give me coffee that tastes really good.”

“I suppose ‘they’re’ not wrong. But ‘they’ aren’t exactly right.” Akaashi shrugged, and Bokuto stared at the smooth line of his back. “Many people will have surprising orders. Perhaps their orders complement their personality, or they seek something they otherwise lack. Well, it’s a bit philosophical to deduce why someone orders mazagran on a whim, but what’s wrong?” 

Bokuto had his face on the counter, running his hands through his hair. 

“You’re so smart, Akaashi! But you’re talking to a dumb guy like me!” Bokuto pounded against the stone. “And you’re such a popular celebrity, stooping down to my level!”

“Right.” Akaashi glanced at his hands, almost depreciatively, before pushing them back into his big apron pockets again. “Bokuto-san, please don’t worry. Of course you’re a huge bother at the store, but I would kick you out if I found it so annoying.” 

“Thanks, Akaashi,” Bokuto said, beaming. Then his beam dropped to a puzzled frown, and he stared at the steaming mug placed in front of him. He stroked his chin quietly, face scrunched up, as Akaashi quietly mopped up behind him.

“Hey, wait, what do you mean a huge bother!” 

“Would you like a sandwich with your coffee, Bokuto-san?”

“What? I guess, I mean, I am getting hungry…” Bokuto scratched his head, trying to remember what he was saying before the sandwich was placed in front of him. “Hey, what do you think my coffee says about me?”

“What do you usually order?”

“Whatever you say is good!”

“Well,” Akaashi said with a small snile, “I have an idea about that.”

But he refused to say more, just shaking his head, and only joined in the conversation when Bokuto instead began speculating about Kuroo’s bed hair. 

 

 

The café was busier in the mornings and afternoons, but only had a few customers in the evening. Towards closing, Bokuto could easily hop in without being seen. He shoved his book bag into the corner booth and drummed his fingers on the counter until the last customer had left and Akaashi finally turned towards him. 

Akaashi was handsome as always. Today his hair seemed more tousled than usual, messy around the back. He rubbed his eyes, sitting down in the booth and letting the broom rest against the edge. 

“You look horrible hot,” Bokuto said. 

“What?”

“I was going to say you look horrible, but you never look horrible. You’re always hot. But are you sleepy, Akaashi? You can sleep in my lap.” Bokuto drummed his fingers in his lap, beaming in a hopefully inviting way. Akaashi looked like he wanted to smile, but he sighed instead. 

“I stayed up late to study,” Akaashi said, fingers pressed against the back of his neck. “I should have started earlier. It was clumsy.”

“No way! That’s great, Akaashi. Kuroo always tells me I’m as dumb as a bunch of rocks. But my music’s the best.” 

“Percussion, wasn’t it?” 

“Your memory’s amazing! I’m a timpanist. I play the starring role in this practice ensemble we got. We call ourselves Cats vs. Owls. Hey, you want to come conduct us sometime?” Bokuto applauded himself for his genius idea. “It’s a real informal thing. We practice down in the empty hall on the weekends. I just came from practice!” 

“Is that what you wear to practice?” Akaashi eyed Bokuto’s shirt, which featured a small owl proclaiming that he was a hoot! 

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“Practice does sound fun,” Akaashi said, not answering the T-shirt question. “What songs do you play?” 

“I’ll text you the list,” Bokuto said, pulling out his phone. “Oh, wait, I don’t have your number. Wait! You don’t have to give me your number! It’s probably something super private, right, so the paparazzi don’t get it and flood your voicemail! I’m sorry for asking!”

“Here’s my number.” Akaashi jotted down the numbers on a napkin, pushing it over. “My cell phone’s in the backroom, but you can text me the details now.”

“I can really have this?” 

“Yes.”

“I promise I’ll keep it forever! I’m not like those guys who would sell your autograph online!” 

“Have you really never met anyone who’s been in a magazine?” 

“I really hope you come. But you can wear sunglasses or something, so nobody will pester you for your autograph. Like I did. But if anybody does, you can just point them my way!” Bokuto raised his arms, flexing his biceps. Akaashi glanced at him, then glanced away. 

“Sure,” he said. 

“Akaashi! You’re supposed to be impressed!” 

“With what?” 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto dropped his head into his hands. “If you keep being not impressed by my muscles, I’m not gonna visit anymore.”

“Is that so.” Akaashi didn’t blink, taking the broom again. “I recommend the vending machine coffee across from the hall, then.”

Bokuto stayed still for a second. He furiously sat up again, mouth agape. Akaashi was sweeping the floor, leaving casual strokes against the tile. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem alarmed at all. Even more surprisingly, he didn’t seem like his heart was being ripped in two to hear that the great Bokuto might not visit the café anymore.

“I’m serious,” Bokuto declared. “I’m not going to visit! You’ll be here by yourself!” 

“I hope you enjoy yourself.” 

The impenetrable defense left Bokuto staggered. Akaashi couldn’t possibly be serious. Bokuto wouldn’t stop visiting, of course, but there was no way Akaashi could have seen past the trickery. And he could have been serious, for all Akaashi knew. Akaashi couldn’t possibly not care at all. He expected a lot more crying. 

“May… Maybe I’ll go to the bakery next door. I’m going to eat a lot of bread!” 

“I heard their red bean buns are a specialty.”

Bokuto rubbed his forehead, bewildered. He slid out of his seat, approaching to where Akaashi was sweeping without a care in the world. Finally, he could no longer take it, and wrapped his arms around Akaashi’s waist. 

“Akaashi! Miss me a little bit! Come on!” he wailed. 

“Bokuto-san,” he heard, but it wasn’t the usual reproachful tone when Bokuto ran rampant and knocked over the salt and pepper shakers. It was a little bit breathless. 

Akaashi’s frame felt slight beneath his arms. He could feel Akaashi’s inhale and exhale against the breadth of his hand. The radio music usually playing in the café had stopped a long while ago, and he was left with the drumming heartbeat pounding in his ears. He wondered if Akaashi could feel the resonations erupting within him. He tightened his arms, slightly, feeling the warmth and the muscles shifting in each breath. 

He had placed his chin on Akaashi’s bony shoulder, but Akaashi had turned his face away. He could only see the curve of his cheek and the slight rosy tinge of his ear. He could smell him, too, a faint coffee scent. When Akaashi inhaled, the strict collar of his shirt hitched upwards. It felt good. It felt good in a way Bokuto couldn’t understand, but he liked pressing his chest against Akaashi’s back. He had always liked the way drums could shake him so entirely, and he felt that same sensation now. 

He couldn’t remember how to let go.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi finally said, pressing away from his embrace. “I should close up the shop.”

“Oh! Yeah! I knew that!” Bokuto leapt away, nearly tripping over his feet. “And I should go—stand outside! Yeah! Sorry for bothering you! Text me! Or don’t! See you later, Akaashi!” He grabbed his bag, slipping it over his shoulder and running out the door.

The cold air slapped his face, but he didn’t stop running. Feet pounding and heart in a fast beat, he ran down the street, past the bakery and the closed storefronts. He leapt over a shallow bike rack, charging up the hill, sprinting over the wooden bridge. His lungs burned, and he couldn’t hear anything except his heart. A few windows in the university still shone with lights, and the moon illuminated enough of the concrete path. He dashed past the old music hall, darting through the gates, and hurtled towards the dormitories ahead. He only slowed down a few feet away from the dorm doors, panting heavily. 

He dragged his hands over his face, leaning back and gasping. His face still burned red, heart still in an unknown quick beat. 

“What did I do!” he yelled up at the night sky.

“Wake us all up, you stupid owl! Get up here already and stop yelling!” 

 

 

The next day, after class, Bokuto found himself wandering to the café again. He couldn’t recall the steps that he took, but when he opened his eyes, he was standing in front of the shop again. The night had already fallen and the café had closed, but the amber light still flooded inside the room. 

Akaashi had rolled up his sleeves, scrubbing down a table. He hadn’t noticed him yet, busy wringing out a towel. He had unbuttoned his collar, revealing a gentle slip of collarbone when he moved. Bokuto pulled his phone out of his pocket, letting the camera focus on Akaashi’s face. His dark eyelashes were fluttering, mouth slightly parted, as he rested against the table. 

Bokuto hadn’t realized the flash would turn on until the bright light went off in his face. Akaashi turned quizzically.

“I wasn’t taking pictures of you!” he yelled, waving his hands. Akaashi unlocked the store doors, bell jangling as he opened it an inch.

“Really,” Akaashi said. “Please come in, Bokuto-san. It’s cold outside.”

“I’m not one of those weird fans who take pictures all the time,” Bokuto said, gripping his phone tightly. “But you’re not allowed to see what pictures I’ve taken, anyway, and there’re definitely not twenty pictures of you in here.”

“You’re a subtle liar, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi uncapped a bottle of water, tilting back to drink the last portion. Bokuto stared at the moving line of his throat, the way his fingers draped over the bottle, and how his lips wrapped around the rim. He instinctively raised his phone again.

“Well,” Akaashi said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “If it’s you, I don’t mind. Would you like my autograph again?”

“Really?”

“No, that was a joke.” Akaashi twisted the cap back on, sitting down on a stool. Bokuto took it as an invitation, sitting down beside him. 

“You sure work late, Akaashi.”

“We’ve been short-staffed lately. Our last employee left for another job, though he’s returning soon.” Akaashi looked like he was about to elaborate, but shifted his eyes. “What do you do with the pictures, Bokuto-san?”

“I guess I look at them. I dunno, I usually take pictures before I think.” 

“Do you like models?”

“Huh? Well, I don’t dislike them…”

Akaashi made a noncommittal sound, resting his elbow on the counter. Bokuto fingered the phone in his pocket. Sometimes he did like flipping through his pictures of Akaashi, especially if he was starting to feel a little worked up. He could almost hear Akaashi’s chiding comments and feel better, though sometimes he still went out of control. Which only reminded him of the earlier class, and he groaned loudly.

“Bokuto-san?”

“Sorry! Just a hard day at class, you know. Things just went wrong and it kept going wrong!”

“I suppose a timpanist tantrum is rather obvious.”

“Akaashi, don’t call it a tantrum! I just needed to work some things out. Loudly.” Bokuto slumped in his seat. “Geez, you’re cool, Akaashi. You work so hard. I mean, the violin and the piano and conducting?”

“It has been difficult to fit everything in my schedule with my extra shifts. But I’ve been working hard on studying the music sheets for your casual ensemble.”

“You don’t need to study that! Just wing it!” 

“I don’t dislike that personality of yours, Bokuto-san. Even if it is incredibly annoying.”

“Don’t insult me right after you compliment me.” Bokuto sulked into his arms. He felt a light touch on his head, a few fingers stroking through the strands. He could feel the precision and warmth. Slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes. Akaashi met his gaze, but didn’t withdraw his hand, stroking his head once more. Then he lowered his hands into his lap.

“Your hands are really nice, Akaashi,” Bokuto said, saying the first thing to come to his mind. Akaashi twisted his fingers into his palm.

“But that’s not the only thing you like about me,” he said, but it sounded like a strange question. Bokuto quirked his eyebrows, but Akaashi didn’t elaborate, looking down at his lap with an almost disinterest in the conversation. 

“Of course not, you’re cool, Akaashi. Every part of you. Wait, does that mean you think you’re not cool? You can’t think that, Akaashi! You gotta think you’re the best! Because I’m the best, and you’re my friend, so you have to be the best too. That would make two bests.” Bokuto counted up to two on his hand, holding it up firmly.

“Bokuto-san, that doesn’t make sense.” But Akaashi had pulled his hand over his mouth, and he didn’t seem displeased. 

 

 

Akaashi did show up for their informal weekend practice. 

He stood in the doorway in shorts, a t-shirt, and jacket, and Bokuto fell to his knees and wondered how Akaashi looked incredibly good in everything. He had such strong legs, too. The straight line of his thighs and the arch in his calves. The stretch of the t-shirt across his shoulders. Bokuto willed himself to stop staring and dragged himself to the top of the steps.

“Is it really okay without the sunglasses disguise?” he whispered.

“I’ll survive.” Akaashi glanced around the hall, looking appreciative. The university’s old music hall was scheduled to be redone in the next few years, but in the meanwhile, students took informal turns in sharing the space. The hall was still in good condition, sturdy and with an older charm. Below, his friends milled across the wide performance space and finished their individual practices. 

Akaashi also glanced at Bokuto’s slogan shirt (“Hoo Are You?”) a little less appreciatively.

“Kuroo! Look, he’s here! I told you he’d be here.” Bokuto stuck out his hand triumphantly. “Five bucks.”

“That was a bet I didn’t think I’d lose,” Kuroo said, “You must have a lot of patience with this guy, Akaashi.”

“Don’t talk like I’m not here!” Bokuto stomped his feet. “Anyway! That’s Kenma over there, he filled in for conductor sometimes when Kuroo made him do it. But he likes playing the French horn a lot better because then he doesn’t stand out or something. Right, and this is Kuroo, he’s the trombone.”

“Heyo,” Kuroo said, tipping his hand agreeably. 

“And that’s Yaku, he plays tuba, and that’s—” 

“Lev! What have I told you about your breathing exercises!” The aforementioned Yaku was shouting at Lev, who was holding the trumpet upside down. 

“And there’s everybody else, you’ll meet them soon. But look, the percussions! Konoha can play lots of stuff, but he mostly plays the bass drum, and Komi does snare drum, and—”

“Slow down and breathe for a second,” Kuroo said, “Anyway, we’re a pretty strong group, but we’ve got our fair share of problems, conductor. Including this idiot timpanist.” Kuroo smiled his usual smile, slow and elusive and looking like he could glow in the dark with his teeth alone. 

“Shut up! I’m the best,” Bokuto told Akaashi, but Kuroo was already talking over him.

“Sure, he’s good. But he overtakes the rest of us, or if he makes a mistake, he’ll stop playing altogether. This guy is real troublesome.” 

“I assumed as much.”

“Akaashi!” 

“Well,” Akaashi said, taking off his backpack and putting down his case, “I might not be able to tell what kind of person drinks what kind of coffee, but I can usually grasp how a person plays their instrument. Bokuto-san, I’ve noticed this before when you played around in the coffee shop, but your drumming is uncannily perfect. Every time you hit the table, it was always precisely on the beat, regardless of the distance between your hand and the table. But you get moody often, which upsets your rhythm or strength.”

“Just a little!” Bokuto snapped, feeling the sting. But Akaashi smiled, which made him forget everything except for Akaashi’s smile. 

“I’m not blaming you, Bokuto-san. It’s my job to take care of that. Please play to your fullest extent, and leave the rest to me.” 

“How cool,” Kuroo said, grinning and glancing upwards. “It doesn’t feel like his first day at all.”

Before they began, Bokuto watched Akaashi try to talk to Kenma. Like always, Kenma deferentially put his French horn between them and faded into the brass, just another musician in another orchestra. But Bokuto loved the feeling before a good practice. He could go on practicing forever if they didn’t usher him out early. The mallets were sturdy against his hand and he leaned towards the drums. His pose was always a little too tense in the beginning, but after the first good strike, with the first good sound, he would be in the zone and more relaxed.

His drumming was about rhythm. It was about that solid sound, echoing from the drum all the way into his fingers. It was motion and action.

But in that moment, he was still and quiet, watching intently as Akaashi stood in front of them. Akaashi seemed almost informal, a hand on his hip and the other idly holding the baton. But Bokuto would have known the serious straightness of his back anywhere. He wondered when he had stared so long at Akaashi to memorize his features. Even though he was positioned further away, he could nearly see Akaashi’s eyelashes, the shadows cast across his face, the way his mouth opened slightly to breathe in and out. 

The baton was raised. 

The first note began.

Bokuto could tell it was different from Kenma’s conducting. Kenma was always thinking, hyperaware of the instruments surrounding him. He didn’t try forcibly to be their leader, but a guide that supported them from an overview. Kenma kept pace with the rest of the orchestra, and the orchestra supported him in their performance. It was usually a consistent performance, strong and steady from the beginning to the end.

Akaashi didn’t have Kenma’s awareness for all the instruments, but he could detect the beginning of any faltering. His left hand swept in, guiding them to hold the note or change the pace. He led from two notes ahead, hand already moving through future steps. He didn’t aim for consistency, but brought up one section and lowered the next, each instrument in a constantly moving interplay, shaping any mistake into a different note and sound that blended into the rest of the song. 

The beginning of the percussion was arriving soon. Bokuto felt the weight of the mallets, strong and sturdy, in his hands. Kuroo always complained that he took over the portion of the song, but he didn’t know any other way to play. And this time, Akaashi had told him to play this fullest extent. He felt oddly confident, and he could tell the other percussion members were following his mood. 

He struck down the mallet, the good deep sound echoing in the hall. It had the perfect amount of crispness, and it resonated into his bones. He struck again, in another good position, letting the note linger as a backbone to the wind instruments. More notes came up and he beat the drums faster, each note keeping perfect pace. 

Akaashi’s hands were still directing the group, but Akaashi was looking at him. He knew Akaashi was looking at him, and he could tell from his eyes what he needed to do. Not the pedal, not yet, but more muffling. He could do it. The sound still felt good, running up and down his arms, but he could tell the other instruments were still loud and clear. Even he could tell that the song was going well. Others were leaning forward with interest, likely surprised that the rampant timpanist had been tamed.

It was easy with Akaashi as conductor. It was incredibly easy to do what he wanted, and Akaashi would look at him, head tilted or steady, and he could immediately tell what he needed to do. He didn’t have to hold himself back, but he could change his approach. It had been a long time since he had fit together with the rest of the orchestra. The other percussionists followed him. It felt good. The sound felt good. The sweat dripping from his chin and the strength rushing through his arms felt good. 

Akaashi was incredible. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, staring at his hands in motion. The baton would glide down with incredible patience, his other hand weaving in the air, fingers grasping at the tune. The song seemed to live in him, each flourish of his hand like a marionette to the tune, even if it was the other way around. He conducted with precision and a casualness that came from strength, relaxed in the face of any disruptions, easily smoothing away the bumps. He was at peace at the quiet portions of the song, and energetic at the faster parts. This song was his song, and Bokuto drummed along with all his might. 

The last note rang out, and it was quiet again. The song was still beautiful in his head. 

“That. Was. Amazing!” Bokuto yelled, drumming down a quick beat. After his disruption, the other instruments joined in, appreciative shouts mingling with the high and low notes. Akaashi seemed to be trying to thank them, but some members were already out of their seats, surrounding and crowding him. Bokuto stared down at his drums. He hadn’t realized that he could play like one of the team. It stopped feeling like Cats vs. Owls, and more like Cats and Owls. 

“Akaashi—” But Akaashi couldn’t hear him over the other conversations. Bokuto readied to storm into the huddle, but Kuroo was dropping a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s probably busy,” Kuroo said. “Good job, Bokuto. This was probably the best performance from you yet.”

“My performance is always the best!” 

“And as for him, he really knows his stuff. It didn’t feel like his first time with us. Well, Kenma is just as good, but he doesn’t babysit the troublemakers,” Kuroo said, glancing at the Akaashi crowd. “But he really looked at you a lot, huh?”

“That’s what he’s supposed to do!” Bokuto felt his cheeks flame. 

“Babysit you?” 

“Whatever!” 

Kuroo laughed, low and deep. But his attention was already drawn to Kenma, who had pulled out his DS and was playing something. Bokuto turned to bug Saru about something, but the rest of the percussionists had already swarmed around Akaashi.

“Really? I haven’t seen you around campus at all.”

“Oh, that coffee place by that pastry shop?”

“What training have you done? Anything professionally?”

Bokuto wasn’t jealous, but he was completely jealous. He grabbed his bag and stormed out the door. Then he peeked his head back into the hall to see if anybody missed him. But they were still talking to themselves. He couldn’t see Akaashi from the huddle. It was different from when he was looking at Akaashi across the instruments. But even then, he remembered, everybody had been looking at Akaashi. 

It seemed obvious in retrospect. Of course Akaashi would garner the praise and attention, and Bokuto knew from the start that Akaashi was a celebrity. But staring down at the crowded performance space, he thought about the cool spring day, sitting alone with him in the store.

He slunk off to soothe his feelings with an obnoxious load of bagels.

 

 

When he biked to the café the next day, he almost passed by it. Customers were pulsing out the door, filling out the formerly abandoned furniture. It looked like a completely different location. He couldn’t see the paintings on the wall past the customers sitting in the tables, and people gently pushed by him with cups of coffee.

“That’s Akaashi?”

“He looks so pretty.”

“His conducting is so good, too, that’s what I heard.”

“Wow, this coffee is great!”

“Here, try the cake.”

There was another employee behind the counter, busy making coffee, but Akaashi was still running the register. His eyebrows inclined upwards and his mouth softened to see Bokuto, leaning forward to talk over the din.

“Bokuto-san, I didn’t see you after practice.”

“Oh, yeah. I was busy, you know. Hey, I’ll have the usual. Or whatever you usually get me. Whatever. You know. Whatever.” Bokuto pulled out his owl wallet.

“We actually serve panini now.”

“Just coffee today. Whatever.” Bokuto shrugged and tried to look indifferent. “So it looks like you got a lot of customers now. Big fans. Whatever.”

“I’ve noticed,” Akaashi said dryly. “Perhaps—”

Bokuto was jostled by an impatient customer, and he grimaced. He tried to turn the grimace into a grin, though by Akaashi’s eyebrow raise, he didn’t believe it.

“It’s just loud in here. Hey, I’ll call you later. Or whatever. Don’t want to keep you away from what you do. Or whatever. Whatever.” He turned away, stomping to where a nervous employee was calling out customer’s names. He leaned against the wall, catching glimpses of Akaashi helping the customers over the crowd. Through the chattering, he couldn’t even hear Akaashi’s melodious voice. 

When his name was called, it didn’t sound the same way Akaashi said it. 

 

 

“Bokuto,” Kuroo said, “You know I like you, but I hate your guts and I’d like it if you left our dorm and never came back.” 

Bokuto ignored him, sprawled out on the couch and holding a magazine above his head. Kuroo was leaning against Kenma’s back, and Kenma was busy playing a game. 

“Did you see this?” Bokuto asked mournfully.

“The issue of the magazine I just handed you?” 

“‘Akaashi Keiji, junior and employee of Café Athena, recommends the espressos. Be sure to check it out!’” Bokuto flung the magazine off the couch, curling towards the back and huddled against a pillow. “They interviewed him and everything!” 

“How long are you going to mope around our place?” 

“He’s eaten all the bagels,” Kenma muttered. 

“I forgot how nice it was when you were busy bothering Akaashi.” Kuroo closed his eyes, and Bokuto threw a pillow in his face. 

“He’s probably been busy,” Bokuto said sulkily, sitting up. He hadn’t called Akaashi after all, but Akaashi hadn’t called him either. He wasn’t at fault. But he knew, a little bit, that it was his own fault that put him in the situation. But it didn’t make him feel any better. He picked up the magazine again. 

“You really are an idiot. You’re the one who thought he was famous in the first place,” Kuroo said, examining his nails.

“Yeah, but now everybody else knows he is. You don’t get it, demon cat.” 

“I really don’t,” Kuroo said. 

“He used all the toothpaste too,” Kenma muttered.

“Geez! Enough!” Bokuto said, shoving the magazine into his pocket. “I’m just thinking myself in dumb circles. I’m gonna go talk to Akaashi and get him to tell me why I’m feeling this way.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Bokuto took the rest of Kenma’s chocolate pieces lying around the table, and grabbed his bike. The store closed earlier on Wednesday nights, and Akaashi usually was the only one left to close things down. He wasn’t surprised to see a few people milling around outside, but he was shocked to notice another person inside the store. 

He couldn’t see their face, just a dash of brown hair. Akaashi seemed unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest and listening to this other person talk. Bokuto pressed his nose against the glass pane door, trying to listen to the conversation.

It didn’t work, but Akaashi did start a bit to see his squashed face. It was difficult for Akaashi to look flustered, but he seemed a little hurried in pushing the other person into the back room, approaching the door to unlock it.

“Bokuto-san,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

“Who was that?”

“Nobody important. Was there something you wanted?”

“W-well, no.” It felt a little awkward, suddenly, and he rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. Even he could tell that he arrived at an inconvenient time. But he still wanted to see Akaashi, especially now that it was quieter. He forgot how much he missed having Akaashi around. 

Suddenly, he remembered the magazine in his back pocket, pulled it out proudly, and pointed to the cover.

“Hey, Akaashi, did you see this?”

“Yes,” Akaashi said slowly, glancing back inside the store.

“Isn’t it cool? You’re in here and everything. I’m gonna clip it out and put it next to your autograph.”

“Right. Bokuto-san, the shop will likely be busy next week.” Akaashi glanced away. “It might be better if you didn’t stop by until the week after.”

“What?” Bokuto gaped at him. It was like his heart was breaking into a million gazillion pieces. Akaashi looked almost apologetic, but that wasn’t enough to soothe his heart. No matter how many of Kenma’s bagels he crammed in his face, this was a hurt that wouldn’t leave. But maybe he was just getting worked up because there was a sliver of hurt, pure and strong, inside him now.

“Hey, hey,” Bokuto tried, “Even if it’s busy, I can still come, right? I like the coffee here and everything. Maybe I’ll even order a panana.”

“I can’t stop you from coming, but it’d be best if you waited until the week after next.” Akaashi must have seen something on Bokuto’s face, because he looked increasingly wary. Bokuto himself could feel his face getting redder, but he couldn’t stop it. 

“Fine! Maybe I won’t come by! Ever!” Bokuto stormed away, fists clenched by his side. Stupid Akaashi. Stupid Akaashi and his stupid rejection. Stupid Akaashi. He wouldn’t regret one bit what he said to him. Akaashi deserved all those harsh words and more. 

Then he yelled out, frustrated and wordless, sinking to his knees again. What a stupid thing to say. He should have said something more understanding, like sure, Akaashi, he was going to be busy, too, with really important things. Accepting awards for best biceps. He pounded his fists on the sidewalk. Kuroo was right. He really was dumb as rocks. But at least he was a good looking stone, so Akaashi should appreciate him better. No, he was trying to blame Akaashi for his own stupid dumb nature. 

He turned his head, and saw Akaashi staring at him. 

Bokuto leapt up, slid onto his bike, and frantically biked away. 

 

 

His despondency lasted an entire day before he gave up trying to be sad, and walked to the coffee store. It really was busy in there. Today he was equipped with his sunglasses disguise, and he sat on the bench across the street. Most people stopped for the coffee, but others were whispering excitedly and peering into the store. 

“He’s a model, right?”

“Yeah, in that magazine!”

“They’re both good-looking, aren’t they?”

“It’s a real treat for the eyes.”

“Double trouble! Hey, is the other guy a model, too?”

“He could be, right?”

Bokuto was mad and all worked up. He grunted, pulling out a notebook where he supposedly kept notes. It was otherwise empty except for some doodles, but he flipped to a blank page and stared down at it. It didn’t make him feel any less worked up, and he tapped his pencil against the paper. 

That made him feel a bit better, so he took another pencil. The length was different, so he had to hold it differently, but the soft sound wasn’t bad. He tapped to a beat, humming to himself, until a shadow fell over the page.

“What are you doing?”

Bokuto stood up, notebook falling out of his lap. Akaashi stood in front of him, breathing slightly heavily, like he had jogged across the street after seeing him. He wiped at his forehead self-consciously, placing his hands on his hips, and looking away to the coffee shop.

“I was just passing by!”

“I did think there was a good chance you’d come anyway,” Akaashi said, bending down to pick up the notebook and dusting off the gravel. “I thought you’d come barging in, though, and demand I apologize.”

“I’m the one who should apologize! Akaashi, I was a big jerk!” Bokuto clutched his returned notebook to his chest.

“When a childish person acts childish, that’s not surprising. But I was being remarkably petulant, so I apologize. Come on, I’ll show you what I didn’t want you to see.” Akaashi beckoned for him, crossing the street to the crowded shop.

“Hey, what do you mean, childish person.”

People were taking pictures in the store. Bokuto had to blink against the flash, but he could see that someone was standing on the other end of the store, striking a dramatic pose. Akaashi hung up his apron, leaning across the counter. 

“That’s Oikawa Tooru,” he said. “I was running an errand for him when I visited the magazine. He’s a model and my co-worker. This is his first day back with us.” 

“Oh, I recognize him. He’s the conductor for Aoba Johsai, right? They specialize in wind instruments.” Bokuto crossed his arms over his chest. 

“He was also on the cover of last week’s magazine.” Akaashi shrugged. Bokuto studied Oikawa. He thought the face looked a little familiar, but he hadn’t focused on the cover. But it was still good news. 

“Isn’t that great?”

“Yes,” Akaashi said, shoulders tightening. “It’s very good for him.”

“Since he’s here, doesn’t that mean he’s working right now? That means you can leave, right? Let’s go, Akaashi, I want to play. You’ve been busy all week! You owe me!” 

Akaashi parted his mouth. He planted his hands on his hips again, tilting his head back and looking at Bokuto. 

“Don’t you want his autograph?”

“For what?” 

“What about his picture?”

“He’s already on the cover, right? That’s a better picture than anything I’d take. Come on, Akaashi,” Bokuto said, pulling at his shirt sleeve. “Let’s go already! I said I was sorry for earlier!”

“You didn’t. But I forgive you.” Akaashi disappeared into the backroom. The door had barely swung back to a closed position when he exited again, bag thumping against his leg. He grabbed Bokuto by the front of his shirt and pulled him out of the store. 

“Hey, Akaashi! The hall’s the other way!” 

“I know.” 

They finally stopped a few blocks away in front of an apartment building. Bokuto admired it politely. Akaashi opened a door, and Bokuto stepped into the cool room. The curtains were drawn, but through the sunlight filtering through, he could see the apartment was fairly neat and tidy. A few textbooks and music sheets covered the coffee table. A familiar coffee scent permeated the room.

“Nice place, Akaashi,” Bokuto said. “Unless we’re breaking in and stealing stuff from a stranger’s place.”

“You’re a puzzle, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, throwing his bag sloppily to the ground. He twisted his hand into Bokuto’s shirt again, stretching out the owl in front, and pulled him to a second doorway. The small room’s main feature was a bed.

“What do you mean?” 

“I thought, perhaps, you really thought I was a celebrity. And that was the only reason you were interested in me.” Akaashi dug through his drawers, the neatly folded clothes dumped out the sides. “But you seemed to like everything else about me, as well. I’m sorry. I was fairly confident in your feelings, but I still became jealous of a real celebrity.”

“You’re the real celebrity! Akaashi, I’m sorry, I was acting like an idiot.” Bokuto tapped his foot on the rug. “Well, I mean, maybe I got mad a little bit because I wanted to be your biggest fan. Or something like that. I’m no good at this stuff, Akaashi! But you finally got the fans you deserve.”

“Bokuto-san, I don’t care what they think about me.” Akaashi said, standing up with a roll of condoms and a bottle of lube.

“What are you doing with those?” 

“If we take into account your personality, then the answer is fairly obvious. Maybe, just maybe, you had fallen in love with me, and you couldn’t tell the difference.” Akaashi sat on the bed, and looked at him. It was a different look than from behind the counter or from the conductor’s spot. He looked intensely at him.

“Me? In love with you?” Bokuto stroked his chin. 

“Am I wrong?”

Akaashi smiled at him from the bed. Bokuto swallowed heavily and sat down. The sheets felt heavy beneath his hands. When he inched closer, Akaashi still smelled like coffee. His heart resounded within his chest, drowning out all other sounds. Akaashi was sitting in front of him, everything like his pictures and more. 

Hungrily, Bokuto kissed him. He pushed Akaashi against the bed, and Akaashi pulled at his hair, slightly, warmer and gentler. Akaashi shoved him away slightly, unbuttoning his shirt. Bokuto eagerly pulled his “Up Owl Night” t-shirt over his head, dumping it to the ground. 

“Akaashi,” he said, trying to flatten his hair back down, “I think I like you.”

“Amazing, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, kissing his ear and running his fingers down his back.

“But how do you feel about me!” Bokuto straightened up, suddenly feeling important. He felt less important when Akaashi shoved him onto the bed, straddling him across the waist. He could feel Akaashi’s thighs gripping his sides, and swallowed a few times at the sight of Akaashi above him, hair rumpled and face slightly flushed. 

“I like you,” Akaashi said. “And the way you’ve been looking at me was sinful, Bokuto-san.”

“It’s really hot to hear you say that!” Bokuto blurted it out, but Akaashi only gave him a slow, liquid smile, and pressed his hand over Bokuto’s mouth. He thought Akaashi was shutting him up, but he felt a finger press between his lips. He licked the long line, following against the joint. He had a taste, but he wanted more. Bokuto grabbed Akaashi’s wrist, keeping it steady as he licked a stripe up his palm. He lingered over the web of his fingers, tongue pressed against his knuckles. He could feel the strength in the hand, wiry and tense. Greedily, he took three fingers into his mouth, sucking hard. 

Akaashi’s flush had reached his ears, but his expression seemed the same, though his eyes were unfocused. He breathed hard, curling his fingers. 

It seemed unimaginable. Akaashi was a faraway picture, and now he was in front of him. Bokuto rose up to kiss him again, urgently. Akaashi’s fingers felt slightly damp as he traced over Bokuto’s chest, following along the muscles, lingering over his abs, rising up to the swell of his biceps. 

“You like ‘em after all,” Bokuto said, grinning. “You like my muscles.”

“Please be quiet, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, pulling open his belt. He wiggled out of his pants, shadows shifting across his chest. He bent down to work on Bokuto’s belt, tousled hair brushing against Bokuto’s chest in light sweeps when he moved. 

“You really like owls, don’t you,” Akaashi muttered.

“Huh? How did you know?” Bokuto watched as Akaashi pulled off the owl print boxers, wedging them down to his thighs. Akaashi’s tongue felt warm against the base of his cock, sliding upwards with diligence. Bokuto wavered, and then pressed his hand against Akaashi’s ear, tangling through his hair. Akaashi glanced up, watching him through shadowed eyes.

“Shit, that’s hot.” Bokuto hunched up his shoulders, and he could have sworn that Akaashi smiled, though he was busy wrapping his lips around the head of his cock. His long fingers held down his hips, thumb nestled in the crook of the bone. His tongue felt warm and soft, damp against the skin. Bokuto wanted more of it. He wanted to thrust into Akaashi’s mouth, but he resisted in small jerks of his clutched hips. But his fingers curled impatiently into Akaashi’s hair. Akaashi pulled away, licking a dab of pre-cum from the tip. The slight breath against his damp cock made him shiver. 

“You’re rough as always,” he said, massaging the back of his head. 

“What? Really? I’m sorry, Akaashi!” 

“I didn’t say I disliked it.” 

“Akaashi—!” Bokuto was interrupted from his heartfelt cry by condoms slapping his face. Akaashi pumped on the lube bottle, looking impatient as it squirted into his hand. Bokuto ripped open a packet, and sniffed the condom tentatively. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I was wondering if it was one of those scented ones.”

“You’re very attractive when you’re not saying anything, Bokuto-san.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up in a weird way!” Bokuto rolled the condom over himself, a little disappointed it wasn’t even a bright color. Blue, maybe. But he was interrupted from his thoughts when he heard a small grunt. Akaashi was leaning down on an arm, breathing heavily, with his other hand fingering himself. The angle made it difficult to see, but Bokuto could still see the plane of his chest, the flush of his ears, the sturdiness of his thighs pressed down against the bed. Akaashi glanced up and smirked. 

“Hey! No fair! You’re seducing me!” Bokuto grabbed him by the shoulder, pushing him down into the bed. Akaashi let out a breathy sound that could have been a laugh. 

“It’s very fair. You’ve been obvious about what turns you on,” Akaashi said agreeably, leaning up to kiss him with pertinence. “Now please hurry and fuck me, Bokuto-san.”

“Shit, you really do know what turns me on.” Bokuto leaned back, still grumbling. But he liked the sight of Akaashi spread out before him, knees gripping against his sides. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, breathing heavily. Akaashi was surprisingly patient, watching him quietly and wrapping his hand to pump his own erection lazily. Bokuto pressed into him clumsily. Akaashi breathed in quickly, closing his eyes and mouth drawn in a thin line for a moment. Then he breathed out, warm, and pulled Bokuto down until their noses were almost touching. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto said urgently, staring into his eyes. “Do you hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“My heart, it’s so loud!” 

Akaashi let out another breathy laugh, turning away his face to hide it. He shifted his hips, and it was enough for the warm feeling to fill Bokuto all over again. Heart thumping, he pumped into him, a little clumsier and rougher than he wanted. But Akaashi only quickened his breath, face now a full flush. His fingers dug into Bokuto’s shoulders, tight and hard. It felt like he was coiling up inside, his muscles tense and stomach warm. He could feel Akaashi, sensitive to his pulses and the feel of his skin brushing against him with every thrust. He couldn’t hear his sounds over the force of his heart, but he could tell Akaashi was making some sound, mouth opening and arching on the bed. He fucks him fast and urgent, falling apart, desperate for the slick touch, watching Akaashi’s hair muss against the sheets, the arch of his throat, panting hard, eyes flickering to him.

Akaashi’s fingers press against his back. Bokuto comes, shaking, eyes wide in almost surprise. He’s still in him, pumping weakly, when Akaashi finishes himself off with a soft sound, semen splattering up his stomach. Bokuto pulled out, landing on the bed with a big thud. He stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. 

Then he crawled over to throw an arm over Akaashi, pulling him close.

“You smell,” Akaashi said, not moving. 

“Hey! You smell too!” 

Akaashi let out a noncommittal hum, eyes closed. He seemed relaxed and happy, loose-limbed and sinking into the bed. He was pretty and beautiful in ways Bokuto couldn’t say, with his eyelashes and nose and mouth and face. 

“Are you staring at me?” Akaashi asked, not opening his eyes. 

“N-No!” Bokuto looked away. “Hey, wanna do it again?”

“I should get back to the café,” Akaashi said. “It was very unprofessional of me to leave work to sleep with you.”

“Yeah, but it was fun!”

“I don’t understand how you still have so much energy.” Akaashi did look rather relaxed in the bed, folding his hands over the sheets. This was low-key energy for Bokuto, but he didn’t want to say anything to ruin the good mood.

“Akaashi,” he said, “Even if you get famous, don’t forget about me.”

“I really don’t care about fame,” Akaashi said dryly. “Besides, you’re rather well-renowned yourself.”

“Have you heard about me?” Bokuto ogled at him.

“That’s how I knew you were a senior. I heard there was a moody, but genius, timpanist.” 

“Genius! Wow! That’s exactly right. Hey hey, do you want my autograph?” 

“No,” Akaashi said, finally perching on an elbow. “But I do want something more.” 

His kiss was slow and melodious, and absolutely perfect.


End file.
